


Second Daughters

by Bluemoon22



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemoon22/pseuds/Bluemoon22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Life is not a song, sweetling.<br/>Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.”<br/>-GRR Martin</p>
<p>An alternate look at post-rebellion Westeros through the eyes of younger daughter’s. The Game changes as new piece are moved across the board. Includes arranged marriages and will eventually continue into canon timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface: The Could Have Been Queen

 

**Second Daughters**

 

Preface

**The Could have been Queen**

STORM’S END 283AL

SEPTA ALYS

Shrouded in white and adorned with moon pearls and diamonds, her Lady looked more like a corpse dressed for burial than a maiden of eleven name-days.

It was a woman’s gown, Septa Alys realised. The material, slivery and spangled with small grey beads, could probably have kept a peasant’s family dining for the rest of spring. The gown had been a gift, imported all the way from Myr and the sleeves were long tendrils of wispy lace, the bodice cinched around the waist.

Her mistress tilted her head to one side, like a bird considering a worm, and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Septa Alys wanted to cry. Her Lady seemed to be beyond all tears.

“I hate it,” she said quietly, bony fingers skimming the silk, squeezing it tightly, “I won’t wear it. I won’t.”

“You will,” stated Septa Alys, her words blunt and unsweetened. Her pampered little lady had no patience for sugared sympathy and nothing could provoke her to rage faster than pity. _Spoiled. Petted. You’ll learn to swallow what they feed you soon enough_. She smoothed out the ruffles in the skirt.

What Alys Rivers would have given for a dress as fine and beautiful as that? Her soul and probably her next dinner.

Her mistress wrinkled her nose, and began to fidget, tugging at the sleeves as though she might rip them into shreds, slight, sharp nails tormenting the lace. “Get it off,” she snapped at Septa Alys.

“Keep still,” said Septa Alys patiently, coaxing the fingertips away from the lace. She then began to tease the fastenings at the back, watching as they unravelled and the gown sagged to reveal curdled skin, stretched tight over protruding bones. The dress melted into a puddle at her Lady’s feet, silver glimmering against stone. Her Lady kicked it aside as though it were a dog and retreated back towards her bed, leaving Septa Alys to muddle through silk and lace.

“I won’t wear the stupid thing,” snarled her Lady, pulling a shift over her pale skin. “They cannot make me wear it. I will not.”

With her back turned to her mistress, Septa Alys felt secure enough to smile, fingers caressing the polished ridges of moonstones, sewn into the bodice. _You wanted to be Good Queen Alysanne and now you’ll play Daena the Defiant._ Her little Lady had always fancied herself a dragon but if she had the brains the Seven gave a snake, she’d learn to play the sweet-tongued doe.

“It was a gift,” said Septa Alys, rising from the floor, cradling the gown in her arms as though it were a small child. “It was very thoughtful of Queen Cersei to send you such a lovely gift. You will thank the Queen by wearing it.”

“I will thank _Lady_ Cersei for her gift,” said the girl stiffly, her jaw clenching, “But I will not wear it. You may put it away and fetch for Hana. I wish to walk in the yard before I retire.”

“Queen Cersei,” corrected Septa Alys wearily, “And you have walked enough for one day my Lady. Maester Cressen had warned you against overexerting yourself.”

The girl glared at Alys as though hoping, through sheer force of will, to change her mind. Her eyes were still pretty, the Septa noted, finding solace in some remnant of the lovely girl she had once known. _You would have been a beauty._ The eyes were blue, Baratheon blue, the colour of cornflowers and forget-me-not’s. Pretty eyes. The sort of eyes you heard about in songs.

_I loved a maid as warm as kindling, with ember in her eyes_. Jase had sung that once. He’d been fond of songs but his voice used to crack and squeal. Septa Alys sighed, once more feeling remorse gnaw away in the pit of her stomach. Such as shame. She would never bloom as she should have.

“Shall I fetch Maester Cressen for some sweetsleep?” asked Septa Alys.

Her Lady’s face paled, dry lips puckering into a pink line. One skinny arm jutted out, pushing the bedcovers apart and she climbed in like a belligerent child being put to bed without supper. Alys Rivers had went to bed without supper too, but her bed had been stuffed with straw, her pillows had been rolled up rags and she’d shared her space with many other small, wriggling bodies.

The bed, like the dress, seemed to crowd her Lady, the enormity of it shrinking her even further. Sheets of gold, pillows of soft goose-feathers and two fat mattresses, all fit for a Queen. Her Lady sat up, back straight, and glowered furiously, pink staining her gaunt cheeks.

“You must learn,” said Alys, spreading out the glorious gown atop a weirwood table. “To be more courteous. It was very generous of the Queen to send you such a dress. I daresay its style is very fashionable at court.”

“It’s extravagant,” said her Lady, spitting out the new word as though it tasted peculiar in her mouth, “Her Grace wouldn’t have a dress like that. It’s ridiculous.”

_Yes_ , thought Alys, laughing somewhere deep inside, _because the Targaryen’s were the epitome of modesty and humility._ Not that it mattered. She was sure the old Queen could have worn a fishmonger’s rags and her little Lady would still be singing her praises.

“It was beautiful,” said Alys quietly, “The Queen was born into the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms. The realm is being rebuilt with the gold of Casterly Rock. I expect you will experience more extravagances at court.”

Her Lady said nothing but settled back into the plump pillows, her stormy face turned away to seethe and rage at the candle flickering near her bed. Alys wondered if she would cry again but her shoulders were not shivering.

“I will leave you to your rest my Lady,” said Alys, smoothing one last crease out of the gown. “Are you sure you will take some sweetsleep?”

The petted little Mistress remained stubbornly mute until Septa Alys had reached for the door.

“Septa Alys?” she called, her voice soft, and ponderous. Alys turned around to consider the sickly creature curled up in the bed. Her blue eyes reflected fire though, and her pale hair was tainted with flickering orange hues from the candle. “My brother is King, is he not?” she said thoughtfully, tilting her chin.

“Yes my Lady,” conceded Alys warily, feeling as though she was about to stumble. “Your brother Robert is King.”

“I know,” remarked the little Lady, turning her face back towards the dancing candlelight. “And if he is King, then you must not call me ‘My Lady.’ I am not a Lady now. If my brother is the King, then I must be a Princess. I am Princess Rhaena now.”

She was going to be a Princess. If rumours had it true, she may have been a Queen. All she had left now were her ghosts, and Septa Alys would not rip away another illusion from her clammy, despairing grasp. _My poor, silly little doe._ The doe who wanted to be a dragon. And because she was young, and foolish, and spoilt she would consider that the greatest tragedy.

“As you wish, your Highness,” said Septa Alys demurely, closing the door behind her and leaving her little Lady to her dreams.


	2. The Last Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have lived too long, she wanted to say. She had realised that the moment the raven had arrived four moons ago. There would be no words darker than the ones she had received in Maegor’s Holdfast. 
> 
> \- Rhaella Targaryen receives an unexpected visitor at the Dragonstone who forces her to consider the future of her House.

** Second Daughters **

Chapter One

**The Last Queen**

DRAGONSTONE 283 AL

RHAELLA TARGARYEN

That night she dreamt of a maiden garbed in black armour, wisps of purplish smoke hissing from the dark rings of her chainmail, twisting in the air like black serpents. Her hair was a river of silver, cascading behind her like a comet’s tail.

There was a dragon on her breastplate, a pale beast that writhed and wriggled like a living monster, its burning black eyes finding her own, pinning her in her place, claws shredding through lace, silk and skin.

_I am looking into hell._ The smell of charred meat crawled down her throat, making her gag. Men, horse, pig; roasting over a fire, they all smelled the same, their skin crackling, like dried leather.

Rhaella awoke with a violent start, the taste of sulphur and rust curdling in her throat. In the half-light, she could see a shape looming over her and she froze, heart shivering in her chest. _Aerys._

“Your Grace?” called a raspy voice. Rhaella remained stiff as a corpse until she realised that the voice did not belong to Aerys. Aerys’s voice had always been high lilted, almost like a child’s. This voice was deeper, coarser and spoke to her of old swords and the smell of the kennels.

“Ser Willem?” she asked, and the shadow took on the more solid, bearish form of her faithful knight. Ser Willem Darry had been the Master of Arms at the Red Keep, had taught her son how to swing a sword, and despite being a giant, he had always been meek as a kitten with her and her own.

“Your Grace, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said, and there was a blush on his cheeks as he looked at her.

Rhaella tugged the cheeks up to her chin. _He would not disturb me like this without reason._ The servants knew better than to upset her while she slept, sleep coming so rarely these days and seldom untroubled.

“Where is my son? My granddaughter?”

“The Prince and Princess are asleep in their chamber,” said Ser Willem, bashfully looking aside as Rhaella climbed out of the bed, her movements slow and awkward as she was swollen with child.

“Who guards them?”  She asked, tugging on a robe.

“Elric, your Grace, and, Desmond.”

Good men. _True_ men. Rhaella would have no sellswords guarding her son and granddaughter. If Robert’s men should storm the castle, they would be the first to turn cloaks, mayhaps making a gift of her son’s head to the usurping Storm Lord.

_Would they wrap their bodies in pretty cloaks to hide the blood?_ It was said Lannister cloaks had been her grandson’s and Princess Elia’s shrouds, the crimson colour camouflaging Dornish and Targaryen blood.

Her stomach heaved. She barely had time to beg for her chamber-pot but Ser Willem retrieved it quickly, his calloused hands brushing the nape of her neck as she emptied the contents of her belly, his fingers holding back her hair.

“Thank you,” murmured Rhaella hoarsely, her throat sore and tender.

The brave old knight muttered a protest and placed the filled brass pot back under her bed. The room stank of sick; she asked him to open a window and sighed at the smell of sea-salt and the sound of gulls.

_If we make it out of this, I shall make you a Lord,_ she had promised him. Those were sweeter dreams to be sure, but as likely to come true now as Aerys’ dreams of siring dragons. Ser Willem returned, just as the babe began to stir inside her, tiny little flutters nipping at her insides.

“Your Grace,” began Ser Willem, running a hand through his mane of grizzly hair, a mad tangle of grey wires. He had a beard too, which had covered in chin in the past four moons, as matted and messed as the hair on his head. “Your Grace, we have a visitor within.”

“A visitor?” That did surprise the Queen.

The Dragonstone was defended by a garrison of four hundred strong and the prime of the Targaryen fleet was anchored out in the Blackwater, waiting to sink any rebel ships. Ravens flew daily from the Maester’s towers; to the Reach, to Dorne, to Pentos and to Braavos but visitors had been few and far between.

Let alone any visitors worth rousing the Queen from her sleep.

“Aye, your Grace. I had him brought to the Painted Chamber,” said Ser Willem.

_And you could not wait for dawn?_ Gone were the days though, when the world had waited on a Queen’s pleasure.  “Have Aella come and dress me,” ordered Rhaella wearily. She might be trapped on a rock in the middle of the Blackwater, but she would not greet any guest in a shift and a robe.

  _A Queen must look like a queen,_ she had once told dear little Rhaena. _I am still Queen._

Aella, a pale haired, slip of a girl, came in to dress her. The gowns she had brought from the Red Keep had stared to squeeze her waist of late, so they had been forced to fetch for a seamstress in village to alter them.  They were all of them black; she chose the velvet and had Aella slip a silver chain around her neck, and a ruby ring on her finger.

Last of all came her crown; it had belonged to Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Rhaenyra Targaryen. A simple band of gold, inset with gems of seven colours; a moonstone for the Maiden, a ruby for the Warrior, a sapphire for the Crone, an emerald for the Mother, a garnet for the Smith, an amethyst for the Father and last of all, obsidian for the Stanger.

The reflection staring back at her out of the bronze stained mirror did not look queenly though.

  _I am old._ There were lines on her face now; they had crept there without her realising and they nibbled at her eyes and pinched at her mouth. _Bonnifer would not recognise me now._

More than twenty years had passed since she’d been crowned a Queen of Love and Beauty. The wreath of summer flowers that had felt fairer upon her head, than all the golden crowns in King’s Landing

She looked more Crone than Mother now. A crone of thirty-seven name-days.

“I am ready now,” she told Aella. “Fetch for Ser Willem to escort me.”

The stairs leading up to the Painted Chamber were narrow and treacherous. As they ascended, she held Ser Willem’s arm, trusting him not to let her fall.

Through the slanted windows Rhaella could catches glimpses of the sea, muddy brown and queasy green, in the pale light of daybreak. Gulls shrieked and soared, falling and rising. Would that she was a bird, able to stretch her wings and fly.

Ser Willem opened the door and stepped in to announce her. “Her Grace,” he rumbled, his deep baritone booming out like thunder. “Rhaella of House Targaryen, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms; Lord of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

Rhaella drifted in behind him, her eyes wandering the familiar shadowy crevices and nooks of the Chamber.

Four windows there were, as tall and broad as a man, each facing in different directions. Through the eastern window, the sky was still dark as the hour of the wolf, and dawn was a blood red aureole on the horizon, barely visible.

In the centre, lay the namesake of the room, the Painted Table of Aegon the Conquer. It was over fifty feet long and carved in an exact likeness of the Seven Kingdoms from the tiny knells of the Dornish Marches, to the narrowed stretch of land called the Neck, severing the rest of the Kingdoms from the icy North.

There was a man inspecting it, leaning over with his eyes roaming over the Boneway, running through the Red Mountains that divided Dorne from the Storm Lands. Rhaella could not see his face, his hood had fallen over his eyes, though his cloak was of brown rough-spun wool and the stench of fish reeking from his person, made her stomach roll again.

He looked up at her arrival, and Rhaella knew him at once.

His features painfully familiar to her, from his smooth olive skin to the dark tendrils of deep brown hair brushing his collarbone.  _Elia,_ she thought, breath catching in her chest, but Elia was dead and her eyes had been full of kindness, and warmth.

This man’s eyes were restless, and relentless. The same glossy black colour, but harder. _Viper Eyes._

“Prince Oberyn,” she greeted, feeling as though she had unexpectedly been faced with mounting a wild horse. “I did not look to see you here.”

“Snakes have been known to turn up in the most unexpected of places, my Queen,” he said, his lips twitching into a mocking smile. He had his father’s handsome face, but Obella’s smirk.

_The Red Viper,_ men called him. The most dangerous man in Dorne; a degenerate, and a poisoner, they whispered.  

_I despair of him,_ Obella had written to her, in her last letter, nigh on three years ago. He had been in the Free Cities then, touring Braavos, fighting in Tyrosh and whoring in Lys. He had returned to Dorne for his mother’s funeral and had remained there ever since.

“You have taken a risk,” said Rhaella quietly, “If they had caught you, only your head would be returning to Dorne.”

A terrible, reckless risk. Enough Dornish blood had been lost in this war but she knew, that if Oberyn were to have his say, all the rivers north of Dorne would be running red in payment of Elia’s blood.

“If the Usurper wants my head,” said the Prince, “then I invite him to try and take it. Nothing would please me more.” The torch light played strange tricks with his eyes, and for a moment they shone like fire opals, before fading to gleaming onyx.

Rhaella was not going to fool herself that it was for love of dragons, that Dorne remained faithful. _This one would have been just as eager for Rhaegar’s blood as Robert_.

She had heard it whispered that it had only been for the sake of Elia that Oberyn had permitted Rhaegar to leave Harrenhal unbloodied, and Oberyn was not a man to forget an offence, let alone one to his beloved sister.

 He and his mother, had that in common at least.

“Pray tell me, your Grace, where is my Queen?” demanded the Viper, taking long strides around the table, creeping past Sunspear.

A taunt, she knew, but enough to unsettle her. Viserys was King, but it had more than once crossed her mind that Dorne would prefer a Queen. _Dornish law only in Dorne._ Yet Dorne now had a princess with the blood of dragons.

_If Aerys had heard you say that, he have served you the same hospitality he served the Starks._ But Rhaella was not her brother and she had learnt very quickly, to fear the sight of fire.

“Ser Willem, would you please rouse the King and Princess Rhaenys,” said Rhaella, watching the Red Viper closely.

“As you wish, your Grace,” said Ser Willem, and the heavy oak-and-iron door swung shut behind him with a screech and a groan.

“You have my deepest sympathies, my Lord, your losses are also my own” said Rhaella, treading carefully. “Princess Elia was of much comfort to me. I asked the King to have her and Aegon brought to Dragonstone but alas…”

It was a lie. She had not asked that Elia accompany her at all, because she knew the futility of such a question. Sweet Elia. Aegon she had begged for, he was Rhaegar’s heir, the only son of her firstborn, but in the end she had been silenced.

“Dorne will not forget,” said Prince Oberyn, approaching nimbly, from Sunspear to Starfall.

Would that Aerys had loved her half as much as Oberyn loved Elia. Their marriage might have been a sweeter story, but even as children, she had found Aerys quarrelsome and his moods difficult. Duskendale and childless years had only soured their marriage bed.

“The she-wolf is dead,” remarked Oberyn, his fingers nudging the little miniature of the Dayne’s ancestral stronghold. “As is Ashara.”

Rhaella closed her eyes and drew in a breath when Oberyn spoke no more. _So it was all for nothing._ And pretty Ashara, the loveliest of Elia’s companions… _the fairest flowers wilt the soonest._

She could think of no words to offer Oberyn, who had played with Ashara since childhood. _I have lived too long,_ she wanted to say. She had realised that the moment the raven had arrived four moons ago. There would be no words darker than the ones she had received in Maegor’s Holdfast.

“The Stark’s will move on us,” said Rhaella.

 If the siege was not already lifted at Storm’s End, if not the Tyrell’s might bestir themselves. She uttered up a prayer to the Mother. _Rhaena._ She did not care if Storm’s End was washed away by the next tide, so long as Rhaena was spared.

_Steffon’s girl._ She would try to forget Robert was also, Steffon’s son. Her favourite cousin.

Oberyn let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “The Stark’s have turned tail. The wolves are returning back to their den. Lord Stannis is your enemy now, your Grace. They say he is mustering a fleet.”

Stannis. She recalled the boy, a sulky faced lad of two and ten the last time she had caught glimpse of him. _I will find a fool that will make even him laugh,_ Steffon had promised, before he sailed on that ridiculous voyage. Another one of Aerys’ schemes. He had never loved their cousin as she had.

But Steffon and his wife had died, their ship ravaged by a storm within sight of their castle. Rhaella had sent for Rhaena then, in the hope of swaying Aerys to make her a bride for Rhaegar.

  _Our cousin._ She had looked more dragon than stag, were it not for Cassana’s eyes and the Estermont jaw. So much could have been undone, if the betrothal had been made then. _The daughter I should have borne for Rhaegar._

Yet Rhaena had been born too late though. The Small Council would not wait eight years for the Crown Prince to wed, and so Rhaena had been meant for Viserys instead.

“Lord Stannis is a green boy,” remarked Rhaella. “And weakened by the siege.”

The younger stag did not trouble her half as much as the direwolf. Besides, Stannis had always been more Estermont than Baratheon, thank the Gods.

“Not half as weakened as his sister. They say the girl lies at the Stranger’s door.”

The words stung Rhaella like a slap to the face. The Gods could do what they will with Robert, she had shed enough tears for his sake, but Rhaena should have been hers. _I could have made a Queen of her._ She should have, if not for Aerys’ spite and the Small Council’s gripes.

Rhaella had loved Obella well, but Elia had been sickly goods, the blood of old Valyria running like tepid water in her veins.

“Mayhaps but that green boy held Storm’s End against the Tyrell host,” pointed out Oberyn, his voice taking on a silkier cadence, “Were I you, your Grace, I would consider other alternatives…”

“I will not abandon the Dragonstone,” snapped Rhaella, glaring at his nerve. She may have struck him there, if she had not thought he might have the audacity to strike back.

A hundred ships lay outside her walls, and only one would be required to take them away, far away, beyond the reach of Robert and his men. _The Queen who lost. The Last Queen. The Dragon who flew away with her tail between her legs._

Her name would live on in infamy. That she, the truest descendant of Aegon the Conqueror, should run away, should forsake near three hundred years of dragonsfire and domination, for a beggar’s fare in the Free Cities.

“Then you will die,” said the Prince, the silk in his voice becoming steel.

“Then I will die a Queen,” countered Rhaella, drawing herself up tall, “I have no fear of death.”

The world beyond death could not possibly be as cruel as the one she had been born into.

“Touching sentiments,” said the Prince, and he was nearer to her now than she would have liked, close enough for her to see the veins in his eyes and the stubble at his mouth. “But I will _not_ have my niece rot away on this rock with you.”

Rhaella took a step back away from him, mistrusting the smile on his face. Poison was the weapon of cravens, eunuchs and men without honour. Would that Oberyn Martell was the former instead of the latter.

“You cannot have her in Dorne,” she warned him, the crown on her head biting into her brow. “You think she would be safe there? Robert would burn your city to the ground, if he thought it would smoke her out.”

_My cousin is too much like my husband._ Aerys had been terrifying in his rage and Robert had his share of dragonsblood, whether he would admit to it or not.

“Dragons came to Dorne long ago, Your Grace, and dragons died,” said Oberyn smoothly, “Why should we fear this blundering stag? But I did not speak of Dorne. I have friends in the Free Cities.”

Whores? Sellswords? Sorcerers? She felt like spitting at him. Did he intend to hide her granddaughter, the Princess of the Dragonstone, in a brothel? Of course Doran’s wife hailed from Norvos, but should they flee, that would be the first place Robert would send his daggers.

Rhaella was about to say just that when the door flew open and Ser Willem’s voice bellowed out, booming of the walls.

“All hail His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen the Third of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the Third Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector the Realm. All Hail her Highness, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, Princess of the Dragonstone.

Viserys entered first, before Ser Willem. His pale hair had been tied out of his face, and he had been dressed in his black doublet, embroidered with a scarlet dragon.

Ser Willem followed him, carrying Rhaenys in his arms. The little Princess was dark where her Uncle was fair, and still half sleeping, her lilac gown bringing out the purple in her eyes.

_Elia and Rhaegar in miniature,_ mused Rhaella the ache in her heart almost unbearable. She was quite sure the similarities had not escaped Oberyn too, for he hardly spared Viserys a glance, Rhaenys had become the centre of his universe.

Viserys trotted up to her side, his footsteps an impatient rattle against the stone. _Bolder than Rhaegar._ At eight years old, Rhaegar had been shy, and meek but Viserys was more mischievous, his nursemaids despairing of him at the Red Keep.

“Prince Oberyn?” he said, astonished, but he drew himself up, tilting his chin. _A little King._ He had no crown though, for none would fit. Someday he would grow though, and Rhaella would give him hers.

“Your Grace,” said Prince Oberyn, but it was not at Viserys he looked. Ser Willem was setting Rhaenys on her feet and the little girl had scarpered instantly for Rhaella, hands twisting in her skirts.

“Lady Grandmother,” she lisped, drowsy, and wary of strangers.

And Oberyn would be a stranger to her. It had been over a year since the Viper had set eyes on his niece, and a year for a child of Rhaenys’ years was an age.

A moment ago the doubt in her granddaughter’s eyes might have pleased her and if Rhaella was a crueller woman, she could have taken a great amount of satisfaction in the way Rhaenys clung to her skirts, and not Oberyn’s.

But Rhaella had never had her brother’s temperament and her rage washed away too quickly, over like a summer storm. She knelt down next to Rhaenys and turned her granddaughter by the shoulders towards the Prince of Dorne.

“This is your mother’s brother, sweetling, your Uncle Oberyn, of Dorne.”

Rhaenys looked up at her, something flickering in her dark eyes. _Rhaegar’s eyes._ She might have Elia’s colouring and hair, but her face and eyes were Rhaegar’s.

The little Princess turned and looked up at her Uncle, as though he were a curiosity from Asshai or a gift sent to amuse her. She dipped into a quick curtsey, and then gazed back at Rhaella, tugging her hand insistently.

“Why does he smell?” she asked, perfectly patrician, her voice lowered to a child’s whisper that hissed off the walls like rainwater off glass.

Viserys snorted but Rhaella sent him a stern look that silenced him. For all she enjoyed her second son’s boldness, he was far less tractable than Rhaegar had been.

It was Oberyn who answered, kneeling down to her level. Gentleness was not a quality she would have expected of the most notorious man in Dorne, but when he spoke, there was no barb to his words, his viper’s tongue vanished.

“A mummer’s trick, Your Grace,” he said conspiratorially, as though they were both children at play, “A game to fool the wicked men. I have brought you a gift, from the gardens of Dorne.”

Rhaenys eyes widened excitably while next to her, Rhaella felt Viserys shift, his face souring into a scowl when Oberyn produced from out of his robe, a ripened blood orange and pressed it into Rhaenys’ palm.

Rhaenys gave it a squeeze and turned it over in her hand. Elia had fed her blood oranges as a child, cutting up the pieces and placing them into her daughter’s mouth. The sight of the fruit in Rhaenys’ hand once more was enough to stir up memories of golden days, of morns spent in the gardens, of lounging under the trees, blossom petals raining down like soft, pink snow.

“Why do you call her Your Grace,” demanded Viserys suddenly, his fingers squirming in Rhaella’s grasp, “I am your King. Mother, is that not so?”

“Hush Viserys,” murmured Rhaella, tightening her grip and placing a kiss on his flushed cheek. “Rhaenys is to be your Queen, sweetling, so everyone will call her Your Grace.”

“But I am King…”

“Yes my love, you are King,” soothed Rhaella, turning to Ser Willem, “Ser, perhaps you may have Tom bring the pups up to the nursery? I am sure the Princess would be delighted to show her Uncle, her fierce dragons.”

It was meant as a jape but the flavour of it still tasted bitter in her mouth. Rhaenys had spent the whole crossing from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, wailing for the kitten she had left behind in the Red Keep.

Balerion she had called it, and had spent her days chasing it from one end of the Keep to the other. Rhaena and Viserys had shut the poor thing in a privy one day, out of mischief and the Rhaenys had turned scarlet from head to toe, pounding her little fists off the stone slabs, screeching for her cat.

Ser Willem had found her another after they had arrived, to keep the Princess occupied, but the cat had not been Balerion, so Rhaenys had not been satisfied. It was only after one of the bitches at the kennels had whelped out nine pups that peace had been restored.

Rhaenys had adopted four of them and Viserys had insisted on an equal share. Now a tribe of pups roamed the Dragonstone, dogs named after dragons, though Rhaenys had named one of hers for her father.

Rhaella knew she had meant it kindly but the sound of ‘Rhaegar, Rhaegar’ being yelled around Aegon’s garden was more than she could stomach.

The idea seemed to rouse Rhaenys though, and she grinned impatiently from ear to ear, grabbing a hold of Ser Willem’s hand. “Up, up!” she ordered, and the bear lifted her high into the air, whirling her until she giggled.

There was a smile on Prince Oberyn’s lips as he made after them, but a sorrow in his eyes.. Rhaella watched them go, pulling Viserys back from joining them.

“Not you, Viserys,” she told him firmly, “I want to speak with you.”

Pups were all very well for small girls and Princesses, but her son was a King, and she had a need of him beside her, always.

“Why is he here, Lady Mother?” asked Viserys, staring after them, “has he brought an army?”

“I think not my sweet. Dorne has no power at sea.” Nymeria in her triumph, and in her folly, had burnt ten thousand ships, ending the power of the Dornish at sea. “He brought news though. The Stark girl is dead and they say…they say…that Rhaena… that she does not prosper.”

She watched him carefully, wary of what he would make of his closest childhood companion dying. He had not spoken of Rhaena since they reached the Dragonstone, not since he had made the foolish mistake of mentioning her name in front of his father. Aerys had not taken that folly well and Viserys had wept the rest of the morn, ashamed and afraid.

He did not weep now. He simply stared ahead, though his arms fidgeted and his lip trembled.

“Oh my dragon…” sighed Rhaella, sweeping him into her arms. “My sweet dragon.”

 She clutched him closer, pressing him to her breast. She could feel his fragile little heartbeat, and smell the lavender oil sticking to his skin. Her last son. _If I lose you, I am lost._ She might have thrown herself from the highest tower in King’s Landing, but for the thought of her Viserys.

“You are a dragon,” she whispered in his ear, pressing a kid to the corner of his eye. “Like Aegon. Like Daeron. Like your Grandfather.” Though Gods be good, not his father. She broke apart from him, and led him by the hand towards the Painted Table. “You know the story, yes, of Aegon and his sisters. Of how they waited here, year after year, watching and waiting.”

“Yes Lady Mother,” said Viserys eagerly, keen to please. He might not have been the bookworm Rhaegar was, but her younger son was entranced by all things dragon and could name every beast a Targaryen had ever mounted.

“We must wait now. Only a while longer. The usurper’s brother Stannis is a green boy,” said Rhaella.

_But Tywin Lannister was not._ The Gold of Casterly Rock frightened her more than the Storm Lord’s fleet. How Joanna would weep if she could see her husband now. Rhaella could forgive Jaime, the golden lion, her husband’s sworn Kingsguard, but Tywin she would see scream through all Seven Hells. His death would be slow and she would savour every scream.

Once she was done with him, she would turn him over to Oberyn and pray the Viper was as familiar with poison’s as they said he was, in particular the ones that could make a man’s insides burn as though roasting over wild-fire.

A sweet dream but the reality was bleaker. Tywin Lannister had enough gold to field an army of sell-swords and Robert Baratheon had the Vale, the Riverlands, the North and the Storm Land’s on his side. Four of the Seven Kingdoms were up in arms against her son.

_“You will die.”_ Oberyn had told her and she felt sometimes, that the Dragonstone would be her tomb, that the walls would close in around her, that the dragons carved in stone would take flight and tear at her breasts, laughing at her while she screamed.

_I will die a Queen._ She would not scream. Not even if Robert handed her over to his men to do with what they wanted. Not even if he cut out her tongue and sent her to the Silent Sisters, or locked her up in the Black Cells until she went as mad as her husband.

Viserys he would kill though. Child though he was, little boys grew into men.

Rhaenys…mayhaps he would birth a son and wed her to him or maybe he would pawn her off on his youngest brother, the boy who Steffon had written to her about. _Renly was his name_. Or maybe he would let Tywin’s men have her, and they would bash in her brains as they had done her brothers. 

And there was the babe. Rhaella did not know what they would do to it. When she had learned of her pregnancy, two moons past she had wept.

The Gods were cruel. First they had taken her precious son and now they burdened her with a child born into a storm of blood and bitterness.

How many times had Rhaella prayed for a child? Sixteen years divided Rhaegar from Viserys and in all that time, she had miscarried four babes and had birthed one, a girl who had lived but a day.

Jaehaera, Rhaella had named her, but she had never opened her eyes. The bride Rhaegar should have had, they would have been but four years apart.

_Now I will have another._ Viserys wanted a brother. Rhaella wanted it gone. She would have had tansy tea made for her to flush it out but there were only three of them left. _I am too old._ But there must be more dragons.  A King, his Queen and an heir. The Conqueror had been but three.

Mayhaps she could grant Viserys’ wish and give him a brother. An Aemon or a Daeron. She would have no more girls. Jaehaera and Rhaena had been her only daughters and the Gods had seen fit to take them from her.

“Come my love,” she cooed to Viserys, “Let us go and rest now.”

And the two of them would clamber back into Rhaella’s great bed. The chamber pot had been removed by Aella and the room now smelled of salt and sea spray. Golden light peered in through the window, and in her arms Viserys’ hair was like spun milk-gold, flecked with fire.

 At noon Oberyn would find her in the Painted Chamber once more, watching the ships out at anchor in the bay.

 Rhaenys had probably spent all morn showing off her pups, letting him hold them all in turn; Dreamfyre, Sunfyre, Blackfyre and Rhaegar to match Viserys’ four; Morghul, Moondancer, Vhagar and Seasmoke. The last was her own, but Rhaella had not bothered to name it. _Sorrow,_ she might call it, or _Raven._

“I have lived too long,” she told Oberyn, Obella’s son.

Yet Obella was dead. Joanna was dead. Steffon was dead, with his laughing eyes and coal-black curls. Cassana his wife, Aerys her husband and brother, who she could remember loving once. Ashara, the jewel of the Court.  Prince Llewyn, Obella’s handsome younger brother. Aegon, the poor grandson she had held and sung too. Elia, her good-daughter, who she should have loved more. Rhaegar…and most of all Rhaegar.

The crown felt heavy on her head and a part of her wanted to toss it into the sea and watch the waves swallow it whole.

Oberyn said nothing. Obella would have chided her. No one could accuse the Princess of Dorne of being a creature of sentiment.

“Tell me my Lord,” said Rhaella, looking out towards the horizon, and the dark shape of ships. “Of your friends in the Free Cities.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to avoid confusion, Rhaena Baratheon is not an Female AU version of Renly. Rhaena was born in 272 AL making her five years older than Renly, who according to the wiki, was born in 277 AL. This makes her three years older than Viserys but still thirteen years younger than Rhaegar. 
> 
> Also, I figured that since there's a pretty sizeable age gap between Viserys and Rhaegar, that Rhaella must have had some miscarriages :(


	3. The Other Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me about Harrenhal,” she asked, twisting one of Rowena’s curls around her pinkie. 
> 
> “Would you not prefer something happier?” asked Rowena, rolling her eyes. 
> 
> Eryna shook her head. “The happy stories are always less likely to be true.”
> 
> “If you say so, though I think your grim Northern tales have about as much truth in them as our sweet southern ones. Pass me more wine my dear, and I’ll spin you a story. The bloodier, the better I suppose?”
> 
> \- In which news of Lyanna's death reaches Riverrun.

** Second Daughters **

Chapter Two

**The Other Stark**

 

* * *

 

RIVERRUN 283 AL

ERYNA STARK

 

That night Cat found her in the Godswood at the hour of the Wolf.

During the daylight hours, the sacred grove at Riverrun was more garden than Godswood. Tall redwoods grew in abundance and tendrils of wispy sunlight would wink at you through green and gold leaves, dappling tufts of spring green grass and cotton haired dandelions.

You could imagine stumbling across Jenny of Oldstones weaving flowers in her hair, or chancing upon beautiful Jonquil and her faithful Florian. There were rabbits, and hedgehogs, and all manner of lesser animals, plashing and playing in the small silver streams that stretched through gnarled roots like glass rivers.

At night though, it became a forest like any other, the ground soft and wet; the mud kissing your shoes with dark, damp lips, gulping at your feet while owls shrieked and the shadows shifted, the wind singing through the leaves.

It reminded her more of a true Godswood then. Cat and her family prayed in a Sept, to a God with seven faces and seven names. Worship for them was lighting candles before gilded idols with names like ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’ and ‘Maiden.’ They sang hymns and read from books like the _Seven Pointed Star._

Eryna’s Gods had no books, and no names. No songs were sung and no candles were lit. Worship did not take place in a marble building with stained glass windows and rainbow crystals. Worship was kneeling on the dirt in front of a Weirwood tree.

The Old Gods. The Gods of the First Men. And in the North, they had never bowed to the New Faith of the Andals. In the south they had burned the sacred Weirwood trees and anointed themselves with sweet scented oils.

That had troubled Eryna, the thought of the Gods being unable to see you. _How can the Gods see you, if they’ve got no eyes?_

There was a weirwood tree in the Tully’s godswood though. It was a sapling compared to the Weirwood of Winterfell, and the face, blood-red against the bone-bark was not right either. _Its face is feeble. Sad._ The face on the Weirwood at Winterfell had been braver.

Eryna had carved more faces on other trees as well, so the Weirwood would not be lonely.  She had carved a face onto the oldest, most bloated and twisted redwood she could find. Its mouth had been lop-sided and it had looked more like one of Edmure’s scribbles.

She had prayed to it nevertheless, though its eyes had mocked her until she had forced to find another, and then after that another too. She was now surrounded by slanted grins and mismatched eyes. It mattered not, she kept on praying. To of all of them in turn.

When Cat found her, she was kneeling under the Weirwood, its pale bark glowing like moonstones in the dark, all the others faces having received their due.

“You…you must be cold…”

Eryna hesitated, her clammy hands slippery with dew and drizzle. She had not expected Cat, who so seldom came to trouble her prayers, especially now she had little Robb to contend with.

 She did not turn. It was safer to stare at the face. The bark gleamed like ivory as it caught the silver trickles of moonlight and occasionally the face seemed to smile, if you tilted your head in the right way, and squinted until your eyes became misted.

“I’m not cold, not at all,” said Eryna, watching, waiting. _Go now,_ she wanted to beg. _Let that be it._

But Cat did not go. Eryna could feel her lingering, could feel her watching and waiting. _Go._ Yet her good-sister did not leave. She could hear the nervous twitches of breath, the soft sigh before the deep breath. _No. Please go._

“Eryna…there was…there was a raven…”

 _Dark wings, dark words._ Eryna closed her eyes, and squeezed them, hard, until the pinpricks of colour behind her lids swirled and danced for her. She would not hear this. She would not listen.

There was a hand on her shoulder, she realised. She felt her insides turn to water as Cat knelt next to her. Eryna wanted to slap her away but she remained frozen, her cramped legs aching as Cat’s hand roamed, clean, warm fingers wrapping around her shivering ones, the smell of rosemary clinging to her long auburn hair.

“It’s from your brother, Lord Eddard,” began Cat, and later Eryna would recall how strange it was, that Cat had borne her brother a son, but was still unable to address him as anything other than Lord Eddard.

“I am so sorry,” murmured Cat, but Eryna shook her head. Her body curled in on itself, she could feel her lips brush the mud-soaked blades of grass. _No,_ all of her seemed to scream, to wail. _Yes,_ some timid voice whispered.

“Oh Eryna…” and she found herself being embraced fully, tender hands brushing her coarse dark hair.

Eryna shook her head, hugging herself tightly, as though trying to keep her insides from leaking out of her ribs. _I should be crying._ They would expect her to weep. It was a requirement really. But Eryna had cried all her tears for Brandon and Father, she wasn’t sure there was anything left now

A bitter humour filled her instead. She could hear the tree’s laughing again. They sounded like Lyanna. _Are you still laughing at me Lya?_ Had it all been one of her japes? Had it all been for nothing?

“I need…I need…”

Eryna didn’t know what she needed anymore. Something was squeezing her chest, shuddering fingers wrapping themselves tightly around her heart and strangling it. She couldn’t think anymore. She didn’t want to think anymore.

 _I want my home._ But she had been at Riverrun for so long, she was starting to wonder if Winterfell had been a dream after all.

“Eryna…breathe…sweetling…”

Cat coddled her as though she were a child. Eryna swallowed and slowly, unbent herself, peering up at the pathetic face on the tree. _I prayed._ She wanted to claw that face. She wanted to peel it back and make it cry bloody tears. _If I had been at Winterfell…_

“You…we should go inside…Eryna…”

“No,” protested Eryna, her voice coming out sharp and cold, like Ice. “No. I must…I have to stay here…”

Her fingers dug into the earth, she could feel the moist soil cake her nails. She was trembling, she realised, though she didn’t feel at all cold. _‘Soft skinned southerners get cold,’_ Lya had taunted her once, snowflakes melting in her dark hair as she moulded another snowball to throw.

 _‘I’m not soft!’_ Eryna had yelped, flinging herself at her sister. Who had one that day? She struggled to remember now but suddenly it seemed vitally important. There had been so many days spent tackling each other to the ground and wrestling like the boys did.

 _I want my father._ But father was gone and Maester Walys had been dead and buried for near three years. Where was Brandon? Where was Father? Where was Lya? Why had she not been with them? She should have been with Lya. Damn her. Damn Lyanna to hell.

“Eryna…” called Cat, her voice weighed down with worry. “You look pale. Do you want me to fetch for Rowena?”

Eryna Stark shook her head once more, her eyes once again meeting the damp, wretched stare of the Weirwood’s face.

Later she would remember someone screaming

 

**OoOoOoOooOoOoOoOO**

She couldn’t remember the long walk from the Godswood to her chambers. She could remember Cat stripping her of her clothes, of how her dress had stuck to her like a sweaty second skin, and how servants had scuttled about like drab mice, careful not to look and careful not to speak, as they poured water into a copper tub.

The water had hissed as it swallowed her pale, sticky skin, and tendrils of steam had risen, meandering like gauzy grey worms in the air, before dissipating into nothing. Few words had been spoken, though the water felt too hot, licking against her raw puckered skin, pale flecks drifting in the water.

Eryna emerged quietly, and allowed a handmaid to guide her through to her chambers. On a silver tray, a glass had been laid out for her. _Sweetsleep._ Eryna might have preferred Arbor gold. The letter was there also but she did not have the stomach to read it. Someone had left a copy of _The Seven Pointed Star_ next to her bed. She wondered if it was meant kindly or as a joke.

Her pulsating fingers brushed the starched cover, glossing over the enamelled Seven Pointed Star, emblazoned in chaste white. Would that a book could hold the answer to everything. Idly, she toyed with the pages and ended up glancing over a fragment from the Mother’s Book.

 _The Mother is the font of mercy, and looks down on us all as Her children._  

There was a drawing too, of a woman nursing a babe, her golden head bowed in prayer. Eryna considered it, wondering why the Mother didn’t bleed tears as red as Weirwood sap. There was no greater crime than kinslaying, and what was a mother to do, if one son killed another?

Eryna had never known her own mother. Lady Stark had died of a fever not a week after she had birthed Eryna and Benjen. Eryna had asked often of her, and had imagined a woman like sister, but older and kinder. _Your mother had a gentle heart,_ her Father had told her once. Eryna had been thrilled when Brandon had told her that she looked more like her mother than Lyanna.

When Eryna had told that to Lyanna once, in one of their quarrels, Lyanna had pointed out that the reason they all didn’t have a mother was because of her.

 _I saw nothing._ She closed her eyes but all she could see was the faces she’d carved into the tree’s laughing at her.

There was a knock at the oaken door and then the steel hinges squealed as it was dragged open. Rowena Arryn crossed the threshold, a tumbler of what looked suspiciously like wine carried in her arms, accompanied by a goblet, inscribed with the Tully trout.

“Red, from the Reach,” she stated, placing the flagon down on the redwood table next to Eryna’s bed. She poured wine into the goblet and then proffered it to Eryna, politely pretending not to notice the linen wrapped around her left hand.

Eryna accepted it readily, the taste of bitter wine burning away the ache rising in her throat. Wine was not a substance with which Eryna could claim any familiarity. Before Harrenhal she had only ever been permitted one cup at feasts, though Lya had often attempted to sneak them more.

 _No. I will not think of Lya._ Yet the image of her sister reared up in her head, snowflakes melting in her long dark hair. _Brandon. Lya. Father._ Eryna finished the goblet and banged it down on the table, nearly knocking the glass of sweetsleep flying across the floor.

“You need to rest…” said Rowena quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Will rest bring me peace?”

“No,” admitted Rowena, her face drawn and pinched. She had a pretty face, Rowena, all apple cheeks, dimples and chestnut eyes.

Elbert had not been as handsome as his sister, but Eryna had admired his eyes, the exact shape and shade as Rowena’s.

 “What do I do now?”

The question left her lips without leave of her brain. It sounded pathetic, the whimpering of a child. Rowena shook her head and patted the blankets. Eryna wandered over, feeling older than the Seven’s Crone as she allowed Rowena to see her into bed, until the two of them curled up under the quilts, Rowena’s mop of red curls tickling Eryna’s chin.

“You’ll go home,” said Rowena softly, whispering as though someone may hear them. “Ned will return soon and you’ll go home to Winterfell.”

 _With what is left of my family in a box._ There had been no way of making sure her father and Brandon’s bones would reach Winterfell safely before. The three of them would return together now.

At least they would not be alone.

“And then what?”

“I don’t know…” sighed Rowena, her warm fingers caressing Eryna’s cheek.

“We should have been sisters, you and I.”

 Uttering the words now, felt to Eryna, like a sort of treason, but they made Rowena smile, a little, her pale lips twitching.

  _Father had promised me a match as grand as Lyanna’s_.  He had whispered to her of Elbert Arryn, heir to the Vale. He had been of an age with Brandon, and at Harrenhal, his kisses had tasted of stale ale and onions.

“Perhaps,” said Rowena, snaking an arm around her waist. “I always wanted a sister you know.” And Eryna did know, because they had treaded this conversation half a hundred times in the past year. “Elbert made for a terrible sister and my cousins were ghastly.”

“Lord Whent had a daughter,” reminded Eryna. She could vaguely recall the daughter of Harrenhal, but she remembered her brother’s being unhorsed, of Osmund swearing worse than Bran as he tumbled from his steed, falling against Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard.

“Shella,” said Rowena, “She was sweet. About your age I think? Osmund was fond of her.”

Osmund Whent, the heir to Harrenhal, had been Rowena’s second betrothed. He had fallen at the battle of Summerhall and his younger brothers Osric and Orland had rode out to avenge him and after they had been killed, young Ornest had gone to the Trident.

Had he lived or had he died? Eryna couldn’t remember. Only one death at the Trident had interested her and the tidings of it had made all the faces in the Godswood smile for her.

“Harrenhal must be a lonely place,” said Eryna, remembering the mighty fortress, the most impregnable stronghold in all the Seven Kingdoms, cursed by dragons and haunted by the ghosts of every soul who had ever came to claim it as their own.

“Very lonely. Poor Lady Orla, Gods give her peace,” murmured Rowena, shivering under the quilts.

 _Poor Lady Orla indeed._ She had started the war with four healthy sons and now she might not even have one. More ghosts for Harrenhal to claim.

“Tell me about Harrenhal,” she asked, twisting one of Rowena’s curls around her pinkie.

“Would you not prefer something happier?” asked Rowena, rolling her eyes.

Eryna shook her head. “The happy stories are always less likely to be true.”

“If you say so, though I think your grim Northern tales have about as much truth in them as our sweet southern ones. Pass me more wine my dear, and I’ll spin you a story. The bloodier, the better I suppose?”

“Doesn’t have to be bloody to be scary. The Night King’s Queen had ice, instead of blood, in her veins,” remembered Eryna, slipping out of the coverlets to fetch the flagon.

“What’s so scary about ice? Ice melts,” dismissed Rowena, shifting back on the pillows as Eryna crept back into the bed.

They shared the wine between them, drinking straight from the flagon, while Rowena weaved her story, of curses and corpses, of Mad Lady Lothston, who had feasted on the flesh of children and commanded a legion of giant, bloodsucking bats with teeth as sharp as Valyrian steel.

Rowena’s stories reminded her of Brandon’s – enormous tales, bold and vivid, like a child’s drawing, or scarlet ink against a page of white. They lacked conviction though, blazing like wildfire, until they were snuffed out in a puff of uncertain smoke.

 Brandon had embellish all his prose with daring escapades and villainous butchery; he could take one of Old Nan’s tales and stretch it into a saga filled with heroes and damsels, that would last for nights and nights until he forgot what the story was even about. He had liked the scary ones too, and all of Lyanna’s brave and star-crossed lovers used to meet the most grisly ends imaginable, all for the sake of rousing her temper.

“Do you think there are such things as ghosts?” Eryna probed, once the wine was finished and her friend was too drowsy to tell her a lie.

“Hope not,” mumbled Rowena, rolling over and taking most of the bed-sheets with her.

“I hope they do,” said Eryna, pressing her face into her friend’s back. Rowena smelled of lavender oil and wine; slightly sour but soothing. There was something comfortingly solid about Rowena; if the Stark’s had ice in their veins, then the Arryn’s had rock, implacable and immoveable.

“Why would you want that?” she muttered, her voice lazy and heavy, her arm reaching behind her to pat Eryna on the ribs.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing Bran again. Even if he was a ghost. I wouldn’t care,” said Eryna, and she could feel the wine burning back up her throat.

To go back to Winterfell; to find Brandon galloping upon Ser Dunk, a madman’s grin upon his face; to see her Father standing atop the bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep, sword strapped to his side; to find Lyanna plucking roses in the Glass Gardens, a crown of winter petals atop her dark head.

Her sister was gone and her crown would have wilted long ago. _The petals were already withering, drying up like old parchment._ She couldn’t stand to think of her now. To think of all of them. Ned was half a stranger to her. It was her twin she missed the most, she had not seen Benjen for more than a year.

“Oh Ery…”

Rowena kissed her gently on the cheek, and soon after fell asleep, the sound of her soft snores filling the bed chamber. Lya had snored too, though she’d always denied it. _Lya. Lya. Lya, it sounds like, liar, liar, liar._

Eryna closed her eyes and fought the urge to smash the empty wine flagon on the floor, just to hear the sound of something smashing, just to imagine it was Robert’s war-hammer slamming into Rhaegar’s breast-plate, knocking blood-red rubies into the mud, cracking his rib cage, ripping apart his bones like plucking legs from a spider.

Lyanna should have lived to see that. Her sister should have lived to see justice done and to be rescued by her dear Robert.

It would have been an ending worthy of one of her songs, thought Eryna, and she could feel the blood humming under her skin, a tiny heartbeat under fingerpads. Lya had always been so fond of music.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next OC, Eryna Stark. I think Benjen is supposed to be about two years younger than Lyanna. His date of birth is never explicitly given, so I'm assuming about 269AL, making him about 12-14 during Harrenhal and RR. 
> 
> Elbert Arryn was the heir to the Eyrie, so I'm assuming he would have been a good option as a husband, if Rickard was wishing to strengthen ties with Southern houses.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This idea sort of cropped up after a series of 'what if' tangents in my head. The story does include about three major OC characters but they will be interacting with plenty of canon characters. I hope I write them in a way that doesn't come across as 'Sueish.' Enjoy and please feel free to leave a comment :).


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